Crests of Waves
by Scribbler17
Summary: Set sometime after episode 3x10 before 3x11. Iris struggles to reconcile her potential death.


Nothing changes.

Her alarm sounds at 6:00 every morning. She hits the snooze button a maximum of three times. She showers as efficiently as she can. She wrestles with what to wear, usually settling for pants over skirts these frigid January days. She styles her hair and applies her makeup, finishing with lipstick and a spray of perfume. Barry may or may not already be on his way to the precinct, but whether he is or isn't, he takes care to pick up an Americano with an extra shot from Jitters, leaving it beside the toaster for her to sip en route to CCPN.

Nothing is the same.

She wakes to the blare of her alarm with a strange mixture of gratitude for another day and dread that she's twenty-four hours closer. She showers quickly to avoid being alone with her thoughts too long. She'd rather be occupied with picking an outfit, and as this is the last January she'll see, she opts for pants. She does her hair and makeup so they'll know how to fashion her when she's laid in a coffin on display at her wake. Barry's not here, likely avoiding his girlfriend who he'll bury come spring, but at least he can spare her a cup of coffee.

Try as she does to escape her morbid mindset, it's become increasingly difficult for Iris to pretend like Barry's revelation of the future isn't affecting her. The worst part however, is like now, when her destructive thoughts extend to Barry: she can deal with her defeatism, but even through her cynical lens, she recognizes it isn't fair to paint him as anything other than the loving, supportive partner she knows he's been trying his best to be to her, despite his outstanding circumstances. If what he's seen is prophetic, he indeed fails to rescue her. It can't be easy for him to balance strategizing saving her with regularly saving everyone else.

Yet Barry still managed to dote on her despite that stress. He sat her down one night after the revelation and asked how she wanted to proceed. Did she want to pretend no death date loomed over her? Fine. In fact, he'd prefer that, not wanting her to be limited by the fear of what might not happen. Did she need to take the vision seriously? Heck, he'd be okay with that too, even if it meant assuming the worst and acting in accordance: quitting her job, traveling, fulfilling a bucket list, anything at her discretion.

His only condition after promising her he wasn't going to give up on her was her own vow that she wouldn't give up on herself. There was a vast difference between preparing for her death as a precaution for her own peace of mind and accepting she was going to die entirely.

"Promise me, Iris," he had urged, blinking away tears she could discern he didn't want her to see. "Promise me you won't give up."

She had swallowed, timid, but had managed to utter, "I promise."

What she had really wanted to say in that instant was that if she did indeed die, she'd be lucky to do so as the subject of such love.

Whether they wanted to or not, they had moved through the next few days seemingly normally. Throwing herself into apartment decorating and furniture arrangement surely helped busy Iris for some time, and when that wasn't enough, she took to planning and hosting a housewarming party with Barry. She found herself looking for anything to draw her thoughts away from the events of May 23rd, from picking up more assignments at work to cleaning McSnurtle's tank for the fourth time in a row, because surely she overlooked more spots if she missed just that one.

While this approach worked for a week and could have worked for two, everything becomes undone after an amused remark from Scott that she's going to "work herself to death."

All at once, Iris shakes uncontrollably. She grips the handles of her chair to ground herself, but the act does nothing to calm her heart. Her pulse pounds in her ears, her temperature escalating with each beat. She stands abruptly, needing refuge, which she finds in a handicapped bathroom, locking the door before leaning against it to steady herself, breathing heavily. After she's slightly more stable, she edges closer to the sink to splash cool water over her face.

She doesn't want to go back out there again for fear that someone noticed her flee and will ask questions when she returns to her desk. If an offhanded, innocent comment from her boss had impacted her to such an extent, she's not sure how a colleague's warranted concern will. The mere thought of being asked if she's okay is enough for her composure to unravel again.

She pulls out her phone, disappointed that no text messages or missed calls await her. She would have welcomed the distraction. When she catches sight of the time however, she realizes that Barry must be on his lunch break. At this cognizance, she texts him frantically, instructing him to meet her in the bathroom on the first floor to the back left of the building's main entrance and to knock twice. Seconds after the message is delivered, a double tap sounds at the door.

"Iris?" comes Barry's muffled voice.

Elated, she lets him in, making sure to twist the lock once more before crashing her lips into his.

"Mmf-woah!" Barry places his hands on her shoulders and gently pulls back, his brows furrowing questioningly. Iris huffs in frustration at being separated, seizing him back down to her. Thankfully, he cooperates more this time, returning her kiss now that he isn't thrown off-guard, though he's still tense. She'd like to believe it's because they've never done the deed at Picture News before. The few times they've utilized lunch breaks for quick sex have been at CCPD, considering Barry's workspace is more secluded than hers (and they may have reasoned that his lengthier employment with the department would serve them well in the event they were caught).

It doesn't matter what she'd like to believe though because she knows Barry better than that.

He breaks away from her and tries a second time: "Iris-"

She takes to kissing his neck, albeit sloppily, but she doesn't care, just as long as she's focused and he's engrossed. She contemplates how best to rid the both of them of their pants, cursing herself for deciding not to wear a skirt today, as it would have allowed for smoother access.

Barry stirs again, so she sucks his pulse point harshly. He exhales contentedly, and Iris hopes he's finally succumbing. She licks his jawline for good measure, passing her tongue over his modest stubble.

When she reaches for his belt buckle however, he eventually snaps.

"Iris," he chides, stern now.

"No one is going to come in," she mumbles into his skin, hoping this placates him. Her heart quickens in vigilance, afraid he might probe-

"What's going on, Iris?"

"Nothing!"

Her response is visceral, surprising herself as well as him. She gulps to neutralize her tone, furious at its high pitch for betraying her.

"I just want to mess around," she states flatly, attempting nonchalance, figuring she should probably flash him her best smile to appear more convincing. Her eyes flicker to his lips and she leans forward, trying to kiss him again-

He dodges her.

"That's not it," he insists.

Tears cloud her vision, angrily because she can't contain herself, irritably because he's right even if she wishes her weren't, wistfully because she only has months left with this man who loves and knows her so well.

The more she tries to will her tears away, however, the more her eyes well.

"Barry," she inspires, the tears flowing freely now, and even though it's futile, even as her body exposes her, she persists: "I'm _fine_ …"

If he hadn't believed her then, there's no way he'll believe her now, and the glistening of his own pupils as they scan her face proves just how skeptical he is. He could never witness her distress and be unaffected himself.

"You're not fine," he murmurs. "How can you be?"

She deflates, collapsing onto him, crying into his chest. A week's worth of varied suppressed emotions surface: grief, denial, uncertainty, remorse, fear.

Barry doesn't say anything while she weeps, only brings his arms around her to hold her close. She finds herself grateful for his silence, appreciating that he's letting her cry without trying to quell her. He rests his chin atop her head and caresses her back as she clutches his shirt tightly, soaking it with tears.

"I don't know what to do, Barry," she sobs. "I don't know if I should go on with my life normally, or if I should go into hiding, or if I should accept that this is really going to happen and live like these are my last days. I don't know…"

"You don't have to know," Barry consoles, his grip tightening. "It's okay to not know."

"You asked me what I wanted," she continues, heaving more frantically now. "But I just don't know, Barry. All I know is that I don't want to die. I want to stay here with you. I want more time with my dad and Wally, and my friends. I want to accomplish my career goals. I want to get married. I want to become a mother. I'm not ready to go, I'm not even close-"

She doesn't want him to be plagued by her worries, she wishes more than anything she could have kept a courageous demeanor, that she didn't unload onto him, but she just couldn't keep it in any longer.

"I'm sorry," she cries, burying her nose even further into him. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise."

Barry's entire posture stiffens, and she looks up at him, curious, her tears slowing momentarily.

"What?" he whispers, staring down at her incredulously.

"My promise," she blinks. "My promise that I won't give up."

"Iris..." he sighs, cupping her face in his palms to brush his lips against her forehead before pulling back, hands still on her cheeks.

"That's not what I meant," he soothes. "I didn't mean you couldn't be afraid, of course not. I'm so so sorry..."

He thumbs her tears as he clarifies: "I asked you to promise me not to give up because I didn't think I could stand if you resolved yourself to death. I wouldn't be able to handle seeing you dejected and hopeless. You're fire, Iris. Your drive and your spirit-they're the best things about you. I'll die myself making sure Savitar never takes you from you."

Iris shudders faintly at the mention of his name, but relaxes when Barry takes to stroking her face again.

"It kills me that you're scared, and I'll do whatever it takes to make you feel less afraid," he swears. "But I didn't mean to imply you have to be brave all the time. You can stumble. You can fall."

His eyes bore into hers: "But you have to fall on me, okay?"

"Okay," she sniffs, still shedding tears, though now they spill out of relief that he's by her side, appreciation for his understanding, wonder that she's been gifted a love like his.

He bends down to touch his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry if I put pressure on you," he pleads, grimacing as though he's in pain, and Iris knows he's shouldering the blame for her anguish.

"Bear-" she starts, wanting to ease his guilt, but he won't allow it.

"I'm so sorry," he repeats. "I was trying to give you agency, trying to help you feel more in control. I wanted you to know that whatever you want, I will support, but-you don't have to know what you want. I'll support that too."

His lashes flutter open again. "I'm here for you, Iris. I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone, especially not when you're scared. Whenever you start to feel that fear creeping over you, whenever you need that reminder, you call me. I'll come running."

Her heart gallops again, this time endearingly, gathering all the devotion and warmth she keeps for Barry, disseminating it from her core to her periphery and back around. The rush of blood coursing through her propels her to catch his mouth in a sweeping kiss. There's no hesitation on his part now, and he reciprocates fervidly, parting her lips with his own, sliding his hands down her spine to hold her figure flush to his torso. For a moment, she can't be afflicted with her prospective death, not when every bit of her is touched by what she feels for him, not when she's joined to him, and she can't help a sense of invincibility, like his presence and the bond they share can surpass anything that's coming, no matter how terrible.

And if it can't, at least she would die as his, and he would be hers.

Barry gently extracts himself from her, his eyes opening to reveal eclipsed irises whose gaze augments her deepest pulse until she throbs. Still embracing her, he lifts her onto the sink's ledge.

"Lay back," he breathes huskily.

Her scalp meets the mirror as she does, her legs dangling off the sill. Barry steps forward to kiss her again, and she opens both her lips and her legs to draw him closer.

Time is meager, and he doesn't waste it, but his palm still spares a tender squeeze of her breasts before it moves to untuck her blouse, to unzip her, to softly part her and slip up the familiar path it had so often traveled before. Her hairs bristle ever so slightly under his fingertips, gentle at first, and then less so, oscillating with the tremor of his wrist. Iris feels the first wave bliss pass through her, and her knees weaken.

The minutes still pass, no matter how much Barry wants to slow them down for her. He warms his second hand with his breath, wets it slick with his tongue and finds its place alongside his other one, pressing tiny, sweet circles against her clit.

She tosses her neck back to revel in his touch, her head striking the mirror forcefully. The ensuing soreness diminishes once her flesh gives way and, deliciously, her muscles clench about him. Her panting quickens, and his own jaw drops reflexively at the sight of her jerking and the feel of her dripping against him with pleasure.

Cries escape her while she thrusts, echoing off the tiled walls. Barry elbows the hand dryer on the wall to set it off, its roaring bellow drowning them out lest anyone pass by outside, and Iris, grateful for his prompt thinking, strains her head against the mirror and moans as loudly as her throat will let her, lost to the ecstasy of friction between them as his fingers flutter inside her drenched crotch. Suspended between his hands, she comes helplessly, her thighs opening with a quivering, sudden motion.

She goes limp in his arms, struggling to catch her breath as he kisses her face, surely covered in dewey sweat, but he doesn't seem to mind. Iris shuts her eyes, wanting to bask in his lips for as long as possible before she's plunged back into the reality of the newsroom.

Barry surfaces to wash his hands, while she remains slumped against the mirror with no intention of moving to leave him until she absolutely has to. He turns to her regretfully.

"I have to go back to the precinct," he laments.

She nods understandably, and he kisses her once more, chaste, but with fortitude.

"Are you feeling better?" Barry probes carefully, and the cautious hope in his expression is so endearing that Iris would have laughed had her impending death not been the burden weighing them down.

She can't deny that her spirits have improved, however. Being with Barry had that impact, no matter what haunted them.

"I am," she promises. She runs an affectionate hand through his hair as he straightens her clothes and zips her up, helping her stand on her feet.

He holds her one last time before he has to speed away.

"It's going to be okay, Iris," he assures her, hugging her close to him. "I know it's hard to believe-"

"I believe it, Barry," she interrupts, squeezing him back, the man who loved her more than she could fathom, who she loved more than she ever believed she was capable of, whose arms and eyes held all the safety she could ever hope for. "I believe it because I'm with you."


End file.
